Demons of the Past
by GrimmUlquigrrrl
Summary: Grimmjow's a pretty normal senior- y'know, when you take the Satanic rituals out of the picture. But he only does those to try to communicate with his friend who died. What happens when that friend comes back from the dead? And what if he really did die?


"Hey Mom, I'm home!" Grimmjow called into the house.

"Hi honey, welcome back!" his mother called from the kitchen. Oh, good, she was in a happy mood. She normally was but, well, Grimmjow had learned from experience what happened when something crossed his mother.

"Thanks, Ma," he said, already halfway up the stairs. "Goin' to my room, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, knowing that he probably wouldn't get one, and continued up the stairs. As always, is parents' door was open and as Grimmjow made his way onto the upper level he could see his own electric blue hair and all-black clothes reflected in their oddly placed mirror. He took the hallway to the left, the only direction it went, passed the bathroom on the right side and opened the door to his room.

He had long ago taken the carpet off of his floors, leaving the worn wood beneath that creaked like hell but looked _so cool._ It was sanded enough hat he didn't have to worry about splinters all that often but had never been polished, so it looked all antique-y and rough. Grimmjow loved that. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder and hit the ground heavily, leaning on the gray wall. All of Grimmjow's walls were gray, except right next to the door on the right side, where the wall did a little protruding and then dipping. The part inside that little square was dark purple, and nestled in there was his dresser and a bulletin board. Grimmjow dipped in that little space and brushed his fingers against a newspaper story, yellowed slightly with age, like he always did. He had looked at that clipping every day for nine years. He could recite it from memory. The heading stated in bold black letters, '11-year-old Boy and Mother Missing after Father's Apparent Suicide.'

Right above that was a picture of Grimmjow, age 12, before he had dyed his blonde hair blue, with his scrawny arm wrapped around another boy. The other boy was much paler and his hair was a contrasting jet black, but his eyes were a vibrant green. They were both smiling, and Grimmjow was holding up the tiny fish he'd caught and was so proud of. It had been a hot day, and they were both sunburned and drenched in sweat, but they were happy.

In the corner across from his door there was a little table that used to be a child's desk, and Grimmjow locked his door before going over to it. He sat on the floor, opening the lone drawer and taking out a nearly used up stub of white chalk to draw on the table to refresh his pentagram with. Even as he did that he lit a match with his other hand, lighting the incense and letting the aromatic smoke make the area around him hazy. He'd gotten used to it by now, and the smell almost always lingered on his clothes and in his hair. He lit the five red candles at the points of the pentagram while he was at it, then waved the match out and dropped it into the dixie cup of water he always kept on hand. Fire safety and all that.

He took off the black fingerless gloves he always wore, uncovering a shallow cut in the palm of each hand. It was a simple task to reopen them with a cool-looking bone handle knife Grimmjow had found at a pawn shop for eight bucks, and honestly it didn't even really hurt anymore. He squeezed the cuts until he forced some blood out, just enough to drip as he held his hands palm-down over the pentagram. He probably needed to reopen the cuts again, because he wasn't getting any more than one drop per hand, so he'd have to do that tomorrow. Great. That always hurt just a tad.

He slipped his gloves back on as he blew out the candles, rubbing the ends of the incense out on the table like cigarette butts to conserve them because Hell, that shit was expensive. He didn't bother opening the window, it wouldn't help with the smoke anyway. He put the matches and the knife back in the drawer and stood up, stretching out his back and legs 'cuz he'd been sitting all day. There was a knock on the door.

"Grimmy, honey, I toasted you an English muffin!" his mom called.

"Aw, Ma, don't call me that!" Grimmjow whined. "And we don't have any more apricot jelly."

"Yes we do, I went to the store today," his mom said. "Now are you gonna eat your muffin or not?"

"Sure Ma, thanks," Grimmjow said, opening the door. His madre was wearing her 'Kiss the Cook's Ass and she won't Poison your Food' apron, a sign from providence that she wanted something. Grimmjow made a grab for the muffin before she could ask, but she snatched it away at the last moment. Grimmjow inwardly groaned.

"Ah ah ah," she ticked, "not until you tell me how your math final went." Well, shit. Grimmjow leaned against the door jamb with his chest.

"I couldn't figure out shit," he said quickly, "but I did great on my English final! It was super easy. Wanna know what the essay question was?" His mother narrowed her blue-gray eyes at him.

"What do you _mean_ you couldn't figure out shit?" she asked. "You spent three straight hours last night studying with your father!"

"I guess that means you're not interested in the essay," Grimmjow sighed. "Aw, c'mon, Ma, you know I don't get math! I tried really hard, I did, but it just didn't make sense! You know how Mrs. Fuongo just _loves_ giving us word problems."

"That isn't an excuse, Grimmjow," his mother said. "If you fail that math course you'll have to do summer school, _if_ they don't hold you back."

"I know, Ma," Grimmjow said. "I'm really trying, I am."

"I know," his mom sighed, putting the muffin back here he could reach t. "But it's going to be hard enough to get you into a college we can afford, and if you get held back when you're already a year older than most graduates nobody will accept you."

"I know," Grimmjow said. He did know. He knew how important it was, especially since he was taking a year off to help save up some funds, but honestly he was almost glad. He was comfortable where he was. He had a routine that he enjoyed, and he was used to this place and these people. As much as he wanted to go to school, at the same time he didn't. He didn't want to have to deal with all that responsibility.

"So," his mom said, tucking her brown hair behind her ear as Grimmjow took the already jellied muffin, "what was the essay topic you were so excited about?"

"Oh," Grimmjow said, "it was, Imagine a meeting between a Puritan author, a Transcendental author, and an Anti-Transcendental author. They are speaking about 9/11 and are using their own works to back themselves up. Write or describe their dialogue. It was _the best._" his mom looked at him blankly. "Thanks for the muffin," Grimmjow said, knowing by now not to expect enthusiasm about English from his geologist mother.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," his mom said. "I'll want your help with dinner in about thirty minutes."

"Okay," Grimmjow said, "just holler for me."

"Always," his mom winked. "Think of it this way- you only have a day and a half of finals left before you've graduated. _If_ you graduate."

Grimmjow kicked at her and returned her smile.


End file.
